


In Love with Falling

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Bottom Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam Winchester, Scared Dean, Scared Sam, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begs forgiveness for several different sins at once, prays in every tongue he’s ever learned, and a few he concocts on the spot.<br/>Wherein Dean is harshly reminded that nothing lasts forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Love with Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Title 'borrowed' from Air Catcher, by 21 Pilots. Guaranteed waterworks if you listen.

Sam’s a piece of shit, and there’s not a damn thing anyone could tell him to the contrary.

Dean’s fully cognizant that he might not make the best decisions. He’s been known to make deals with demons, in order to save the life of the person he loves most on this godforsaken planet.

But that’s nothing.

Absolutely nothing

to the fact that he’s gone and made the biggest fuck up one can make short of pissing in the face of God.

_You did it, Dean, you shot yourself in the ass, this time._

Dean braces himself on the toilet, pants hovering somewhere around his ankles. He can blame Sammy’s big ass knot for this one.

Dean’s mouth twitches with the thought. That’s cool. It’s fine.

He can just blame the entire fiasco on Sammy, and the fact that he’s insatiable. If he wakes up in the middle of the night at half mast, hell, less than half mast, he’s turning Dean over, grazing his teeth softly over his claim

_stop, Sammy, m’not presentin’ it’s the middle of the damn night_

And Sam’s voice, sleep-rough and growling. “Fuck, baby, please. You can just lay there, just let me look at you--” Dean’s boxers are unceremoniously shoved down to mid-thigh, Sam hoisting his ass in the air with one hand. That’s always enough to make Dean begin to collect slick, even against his will.

If Sam were less observant, he would have never noticed how Dean’s damn ‘mega brain reacted to the display of dominance. As it is, he did, and now Dean doesn’t stand a chance.

Barely did to begin with.

Sam manhandles him onto his stomach, big hand running between his thighs and stopping just short of Dean’s spasming hole. Presses the tip of his thumb inside, and Dean whimpers, relishing the pleased growl Sam always makes in response. Holds Dean’s wrists behind his back, bones rubbing together and chafing in Sammy’s grip.

“Like it when I make you present, baby?” Dean’s reduced to noises, primarily, during these times, but he’s pretty sure Sam reverts to Neanderthal cognitive functioning, lacks the ability to form complete thoughts. That’s probably a beneficial thing, though, considering the sentences Sam utters aren’t fit to be repeated.

“I’ll keep your ass in the air for as long as I want it, Dean.” Dean’s nodding, face flushed and mouth slack as Sam curves two fingers sharply in his ass, pressing his prostate mercilessly. “Tell me how much you love me.” Sam’s way too composed in these moments, impeccable self-control shining through.

And Dean babbles, mindlessly, locked in this thing with Sam and wired to tell Sam everything he wants, as honestly as his mind can conjure up the words. “Love everything about you, Sammy--” writhes anxiously, Sam’s toying with his sack now, rolling his leaden balls in feather light fingertips. He’s gasping outright, will promise Sam control over his damn soul, at this point.

Begs forgiveness for several different sins at once, prays in every tongue he’s ever learned, and a few he concocts on the spot.

“Wanna bend over for you--” Sam’s fingers tighten in Dean’s hair, barely perceptible. “Gonna let me sit on your dick, all day?” Dean’s a fraction more self-possessed, because he can scent how close Sam is to claiming him, all over again, and he’s not used to allowing himself to want

In the end, Dean’s keening

“M’your good boy, Sammy--fuck--fucking slut for that damn cock--” Dean knows what that does for Sammy, how much he loves the verbal reassurance that Dean’s there.

That Dean’s as much a part of this anathematized ride as he is.

Neither of them have much of a choice, at this point, but they were damned when Sammy opened his eyes for the first time and Dean told Mary he looked like a turtle. Dean’s never let him live that one down. Dean rises on that note, drags his pants up and leaves them unbuttoned.

He rests his palms on the bathroom counter, wondering idly whether or not it was painted that off-white shade or whether wear and decline has debased it to that. Dean perks up, hears the front door to the small cabin they’re squatting in opening with a shriek.

Borrowing. Sammy won’t agree with any other word choices. Dean doesn’t see the difference one way or the other. His world has always been more black and white--and that’s been his curse. Borrowing, then. Borrowing implies the intention of returning. Legally.

Dean’s pretty sure that Sammy plans to fuck him out of existence. Lays his big paws everywhere he can reach--was always a tactile child, wounded Dean more than he’ll ever admit when Sam decided he was unworthy of his touch. But now Sam’s knotting him with the sickly sweet scent of desperation, overripe peaches and sage, and it scorches in its intensity.

And when Dean sleeps, Sammy thinks he’s dead to the world, fucked out and loose limbed, abused hole twitching with phantom thrusts. But, occasionally, Dean clings to the outer edge of awareness, pressed against Sam’s side, cause Sam can’t sleep without him in close proximity

_Not anymore, Dean. You gotta give me this_

and Dean burrows inside, carving out a place for himself in Sam’s chest, all torn fingernails and ragged breaths, a job he clamored for.

And when it’s dark outside and you can smell the rain, rust and cotton mixed up, dense cloud like smoke, Dean can feel Sam shaking beside him, entire body quaking the bed, one arm curved tight around Dean’s midsection, the other resting gently on his hair. Dean’s about to turn over, inquire groggily just what the fuck Sam might be doing

when he stops breathing, heart slows down to an extra casual pace

and Dean knows he’s crying.

He’s letting out barebacked, shuddering sobs that have Dean tensing his muscles, ready to jerk himself into a sitting position, regardless of the level of exhaustion sluicing through his bones.

_Should’ve never claimed you just to watch you die._

Sammy doesn’t say another word after that, not during that incident nor the next, when he wraps Dean up like a child and tugs him close. Dean’s livid, with himself, and the rest of the world. Reminds himself that he was supposed to _hold out_

supposed to make sure he left Sammy in one piece when he was gone.

And Sam knows he can’t search for a loophole.

Do not pass go, go directly to jail.

So Dean allows Sammy to cleave to him (corpse) and Sam doesn’t mention it so Dean pretends it never happened. And every moment Dean spends hooked to his brother’s knot, he calculates how much time Sam’ll spend absolving himself of it in tears.

Dean doesn’t usually see Sam cry. Sam immerses himself in research, bends his mind and body to the breaking point, which will shatter first.

Dean rescinds his earlier statement. The only one who has committed any wrong, is him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
